


The Extraordinary Tale of the Achronological Detective

by oneiriad



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Community: xover_exchange, Crossover, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-16
Updated: 2011-12-16
Packaged: 2017-10-27 10:11:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/294596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneiriad/pseuds/oneiriad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People keep stealing John's phone. Of course, that's the least of it…</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Extraordinary Tale of the Achronological Detective

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Невероятные приключения сыщика вне времени (The Extraordinary Tale of the Achronological Detective)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/326950) by [Grethen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grethen/pseuds/Grethen)



> Written for meteorfire as part of the 2011 xover-exchange. Thanks to jaune_chat for betaing.

The first time John hears the name Rory Williams is from Sarah, over the Chinese take-out that they’ve wound up having instead of the planned dinner at a fancy restaurant due to a really-should-have-seen-it-coming-a-mile-away case of Sherlock being an absolute prat and dragging the pair of them along with him on his latest case of running about London and jumping off a bloody bridge in a vain attempt to catch the criminal-of-the-day’s specially trained courier bat before it got away with the evidence. She’s talking about the possible replacements for Vanessa-the-nurse-who-is-going-to-join-Doctors-Without-Borders-to-go-find-herself and half his last name disappears in yet another bite of mu shu pork and truth be told, John doesn’t actually remember it anyway until the day he comes face to face with the man himself about a week later at the clinic, because it’s honestly not the most memorable part of that particular date.

Alas, neither is what happens after they’ve finished the boxes of mu shu and chow mein and dumplings and fried rice. In hindsight, he supposes that really should have been a clue.

The first time John realizes that Rory-the-new-part-time-nurse-that-all-the-patients-seem-to-love is identical to Mr.-Williams-of-Mr.-and-Mrs-Williams-Mrs.-Hunter’s-new-lodgers-that-moved-in-after-the-married-ones-had-that-final-argument-that-ended-with-the-police-for-once-coming-to-Baker-Street-for-a-purpose-other-than-harassing-Sherlock is about three weeks after the man’s started work – and 6 days after Sarah told him that perhaps they should consider seeing other people – and happens by way of running into him.

Literally.

One minute he’s following Sherlock out the door, rushing because their informant said that the mysterious Colonel Moran will be at Knightsbridge in exactly 17 minutes, and the next he doesn’t have time to stop as the next door down opens and two people come rushing out, and it all ends in bruises and him and Rory sprawling on the sidewalk, lying halfway on top of one another.

“Come along, Rory,” and the vaguely familiar redhead drags the poor fellow out from under him and to his feet and away so quickly that he doesn’t actually register who it was he was lying on top off before a “Sorry, Dr. Watson” drifts back in his general direction, and he doesn’t have time to answer it, because – “Come along, John” – Sherlock has – oh wonder of wonders – noticed that he isn’t keeping up and is just as determinedly dragging him in the other direction and around the corner and out of sight.

Moran never shows. Or if he does, they don’t recognize him. The most unusual sight at Knightsbridge is a homeless fellow sitting in a corner and carrying on a conversation with a large rat.

The next day at work, he and Rory compare bruises and exchange apologies and after work they wind up at a pub together, commiserating about bossy partners over a pint while the television drones on in the background about Paris Hilton marrying one of the princes-in-exile.

And life goes on.

Then comes the day when Mrs. Williams the redhead shows up at the clinic with a man in tow that reminds John a little bit of Sherlock, assuming Sherlock would ever be caught dead in a bowtie, asking for her husband, and the way she’s gripping the fellow’s hand in her own and keeps looking at him as if to make sure he’s still there makes John worry that Mrs. Hunter’s lodgers version 2.0 is going to end the same way as version 1.0 – that is, until Rory announces his presence by dropping a stack of clipboards and quite thoroughly neglecting to pick them up in favour of rushing forward and enveloping the fellow in an enthusiastic hug.

A couple of hours later John breaks for lunch and finds the three of them ensconced in one corner of the lunchroom, and Rory waves him over and introduces him to “my wife Amy” and “John Smith”, and John says hello before going to sit with a couple of other co-workers, leaving the three of them to their reunion. About halfway through his sandwich there’s a tap on his shoulder and a Mr. Smith asking if he might borrow John’s phone, and perhaps it’s because the guy reminds him of Sherlock, but he lets him.

Which is why, when he comes home that night, he greets Sherlock by informing him that it’s all his fault – one phone call and next thing Mr. Smith was running off as fast as Sherlock ever could, Rory and Amy in his wake, and it was only after the door had fallen shut behind them that it occurred to John that he hadn’t gotten his phone back. Not that Sherlock cares about John’s lost phone, though that’s probably because Mycroft has chosen this day to come for a visit, unusually harried-looking and he keeps looking at John oddly, which John chooses to ignore in favour of making the brothers and himself a cup of tea.

Three days later, just as John has decided to try to knock on Mrs. Turner’s door one more time (and hopefully, this time her “oh-that’s-just-crazy-uncle-Jack” won’t be by for a visit) before giving his phone up as a lost cause, a somewhat dishevelled-looking Rory shows up with it – and with a bag of what must be the most deliciously smelling pastries John’s ever had the misfortune not to encounter before, by way of apology.

John’s in the middle of using one of the delicious pastries to tempt Sherlock away from his latest experiment – which has occupied the kitchen for the last couple of days, and frankly, John finds the collection of mutilated genitalia unsettling, especially first thing in the morning – when Mycroft walks in, and two visits in one week must be some sort of a record. Somewhere between a glaring Sherlock and a Mycroft that John at one point catches fiddling with his phone and managing to not look the least bit guilty about it, the pastries vanish from the face of this earth.

As Mycroft leaves, John happens to look out the window. Next to the large car idling at the curb a man in an old style military coat is waiting, and it looks to John as if the two of them are arguing, and then Mycroft hands something over. He’s just about to call Sherlock over, but then the stranger lifts his head, looking straight at John, making him freeze, feeling as if he’s caught in a sniper’s sights – and then the man leaves and the car drives away and John decides not to bother.

In the end, he decides that the whole business is barely worth a blog post – and as Sherlock manages to rather spectacularly uncover a secret lab run by a mad doctor from Sumatra, well, he has more interesting things to write about. Although, sitting in a damp sewer, hiding from man-eating rat-things, he has cause to marvel at the reception in your average London sewer. No, scratch that – he has cause to be grateful for it.

About a week later he’s enjoying his last day off before going back to work, the nasty infection in the bites on his hand having thankfully gone away, and he’s lazing about, ignoring Sherlock sulking melodramatically in favour of leafing through the Times and reading an article about pro-Royalist elements facing charges for recklessly endangering lives by lighting bonfires in front of the Buckingham Luxury Apartment Complex. Apparently, one of the fires was lit right outside President Jones’ official apartment, and questions are being asked about the appalling breach in…

His phone rings.

On the other end is a woman asking for the doctor.

“This is Doctor Watson,” he tells her, but she just insists on speaking with the doctor, that it’s a matter of some urgency, her inflection ever so slightly odd, like an accent he’s never heard before. Eventually he’s told he’s “bloody useless” and she hangs up. “Wrong number,” he shrugs at the enquiring look Sherlock throws his way. And that’s that.

Except later that day he comes into the living room and finds Sherlock carrying on an excited conversation on his phone, and really, John is going to have to device some sort of training program to teach Sherlock not to use other people’s electronics. He sits down, intending to check his e-mail, only to have his laptop commandeered by a Sherlock who dismisses the mere thought of crossing the room to get his own, and John wonders if they might have any books on clicker training sociopathic consulting detective flatmates at the library.

Speaking of the library, his first day back at work winds up getting constantly interrupted by text messages demanding that John stop by the library to get this book. And that book. Oh, and forget the first one, but these three. It gets to the point where he’s sorely tempted to turn the bloody thing off, it’s so distracting, and Sarah's giving him annoyed looks of the boss-wondering-why-the-doctor-has-time-for-all-those-text-messages-when-he’s-supposed-to-be-busy-as-a-bee-working variety, and when he finally breaks down and sends an exasperated text telling Sherlock to cut it off, he gets one back telling him that also, they’re out of milk.

He meets Lestrade at the door. The good Inspector looks vaguely annoyed - which admittedly is not an uncommon expression on him - and he’s carrying a bulging bag full of old folders. They enter the apartment together and John finds himself blinking at the huge map of London that Sherlock has found somewhere and put up on the wall – and not just any map, oh no. Old and covered with scribbles in half a dozen different hands, a maze of buildings and roads that London has not seen for more than a hundred years.

“You know, I don’t even want to know what you want these for. I mean, some of these are still classified,” and Lestrade is sort of generally shaking his head as he deposits his bag on the nearest convenient surface, dragging John’s gaze away from the map to where Sherlock practically pounces on the folders. He watches for just a moment, then shakes his head and – heading towards the kitchen to put away the milk – asks Lestrade if he’d like a cuppa before heading off.

At first John presumes that his flatmate’s sudden interest in late-Monarchical London is another round of who-was-Jack-the-Ripper, but gradually he starts to wonder why, if that’s the case, would Sherlock need piles and piles of books with titles like The Rise and Fall of the British Monarchy, Anarchists in the Late 19th Century; and The Bloody Jubilee. John is sent back out, to libraries and city archives, trawling through downright ancient newspapers - not all of them available on microfilm - and Sherlock sticks the photocopied articles he brings back to the wall and circles words like ‘infernal machines’. He stays up late, sticking needles in his map and watching ancient clips on YouTube of the bits of the last Jubilee right before the explosion, over and over and over again.

At least once a day he steals John’s phone. It’s getting to where he’s seriously considering buying a new one and just letting Sherlock keep the old one.

Lestrade drops by with a small pile of obviously carefully selected cold cases – a woman found dead in a locked room, an inexplicable disappearance aboard an honest-to-god airship, a brace of hands found dangling from a signpost – but Sherlock barely looks up. Lestrade frowns and looks worried. There’s something about his expression – an almost infectious unease.

And then one day John comes home from a long, hard day of dealing with colds and sprains and all manner of Christmas-shopping-related injuries and Sherlock’s not in the flat. Mycroft is – along with the stranger in the old style military coat – looking serious and asking John when he last saw Sherlock? If he knows where he might be? If he knows what he’s been up to lately?

Eventually they grow tired of asking questions to which John hasn’t got an answer – and if he did, he’d bloody well not tell Mycroft, because something feels distinctly off about this – and leave, but just as the stranger is about to walk out the door, he pauses, turns around – and winks. Just once, quickly, as if he and John share some secret, except John has no idea what it’s supposed to be.

And then he’s left alone.

Alone in the flat.

Sherlock doesn’t show himself that night. Nor the next day. Nor the next. No news, no mysterious text message, no outlandish stranger approaching him on the street. Nothing.

John goes to work and comes home and he calls Lestrade, but Lestrade doesn’t know where Sherlock is either. The days pass and there’s no sign and John doesn’t even have an idea of where to start looking. Mrs. Hudson brings him tea and cookies and asks questions about Sherlock that he has no answers to. At work he sees Sarah and Rory and his other workmates look worriedly at him, and it makes him want to hit something. Shoot something. Makes him long for the simplicity of war and having an enemy to fight.

Eventually, two days before Christmas, Rory grabs hold of him and informs him that they’re going to be going out for a pint. Except they don’t, because instead of a pub, Rory leads him back to Baker Street, to 223 and up the stairs to his and his wife’s flat.

It’s a mess. A London map hanging crookedly on the wall, piles of paper and books on the floor, and in the middle of it Sherlock, his arms sporting far too many nicotine patches for John’s liking, and if he decides to interrupt his flatmate by enveloping him in a hug, feeling him first stiffen and then relax against him, well, surely he’s excused. Surely he’s excused if he just wants to stand like that for just a little while.

A little while is all he gets, before Sherlock pushes him away, surprisingly gently, and asks for his phone. John looks at his flatmate, shouting into John’s phone about Westminster Bridge and the left front wheel, and he knows he should feel exasperated, exasperated and worried, but honestly, all he can feel is relief.

They sit around the kitchen table – John, Sherlock and Rory – drinking tea and not actually talking, while Amy goes out for take-away. Sherlock hasn’t given back John’s phone yet – he holds it, tightly, glancing at it as if worried he’s missed a call.

When Amy walks in the door they all jump, that’s how tense they are, and John isn’t even quite sure why – but Amy looks spooked, talks about a dark car idling at the curb outside the Indian place, about a feeling of being watched, CCTV cameras turning as if to follow her path. And when there’s a knock on the door in the middle of dinner, they’re not really that surprised.

A second knock, insistent, and it’s Rory who finally rises, slowly moving towards the door, and John thinks of his service pistol with longing as he tenses, fight-or-flight instincts clawing to rise to the surface as Rory’s hand reaches for the door handle and a third knock shakes the door, promising worse, and then…

Then John’s phone rings…

The door opens - slowly…

Behind him, Sherlock lets out a whoop…

The door swings open…

John feels Sherlock grabbing hold of his shoulders, shouting something in his ear that he can’t hear above the pounding of his heart…

And then…

And then there’s nobody outside…

And Sherlock is whirling him, giddy, exultant as at the end of a case, jumping for the joy of having accomplished what lesser minds couldn’t, and John is caught up in the excitement of it, dragging Sherlock in, hugging him and laughing and he’s not even sure of what, not sure of anything anymore, not sure why it should matter anyway.

Eventually, they leave Amy and Rory’s flat, gathering Sherlock’s scattered paraphernalia – which of course John winds up carrying most of – and making their way home.

Mycroft is sitting in their living room. He looks up as they enter, and John finds himself tensing, but the man merely nods at him briefly before lifting his umbrella to point it straight at Sherlock.

“Don’t think you’re getting out of it this time.”

After he’s left, having delivered his – warning? – John turns to Sherlock.

“Out of what, exactly?”

“Oh, he keeps trying to make me accept a knighthood. Dull.” And just like that, the world is back in its usual post-case rut, except Christmas is now in somewhat less than two days and John doesn’t actually have time to be in a rut, because he hasn’t gotten around to buying most of this year’s presents yet, let alone gotten around to figuring out what to get Sherlock. Maybe a phone…

Yet somehow Christmas comes, bright lights and a fine layer of snow covering the world, and Mrs. Hudson bringing them a large plate of deliciously smelling cookies before leaving for her sister’s place, and all is right with the world.

There’s a knock on the door just as the Queen is finishing her speech – which he has forced Sherlock to watch, despite the man declaring it to be “Dull! Dull! Utterly dull!” before reluctantly sitting down.

Outside is John Smith, dressed in an old-fashioned mailman’s uniform, grinning as he holds out two letters. One is a simple, blue envelope, addressed to Mr. Holmes & Dr. Watson, and inside is an invitation to come spend Christmas – well, what’s left of it, anyway – with Amy, Rory and John Smith.

The second envelope is old and yellow, bulging slightly and seems to have suffered from water damage at some point. The name and address of Sherlock Holmes is neatly written, handwriting so very fine as rarely seen anymore, and the stamp looks anything but recent. He hands it to Sherlock, glancing curiously over his shoulder at the neat writing.

“Mr. Holmes,

On behalf of both myself and my Mistress, I would like to offer our most sincere gratitude for your kind assistance…”

Sherlock turns around, throwing the bundle of paper carelessly on the kitchen table, and John notices something slip out, falling to the floor. Bending down to pick it up, he realizes that it’s a photograph. Two women in Victorian clothing are facing the camera – one sitting, the other standing, tall and proud. There’s something off about the standing one, something about her skin – and John squints, because it must be some sort of medical condition, that can’t possibly be scales…

“Come along, John,” and Sherlock’s already nearly out the door, so John puts the photograph down and goes to get his own coat. Down on the street, John Smith starts singing a Christmas carol, and as they walk past a strange, blue phone box that John could have sworn wasn’t there yesterday, he reaches out and puts his arms around John’s and Sherlock’s shoulders.

“`Tis the season to be jolly.”

John is surprised to hear Sherlock join in on the falalas.


End file.
